


And My Heart Beats So That I Can Hardly Speak

by poetic_nonsense



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: (offscreen) - Freeform, ANY holiday you damn well please, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Charlotte is smitten, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Erika mostly just wants to get laid, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/F, Fluff, Holidays, Snow, WHICH holidays I hear you ask, after a fashion, as long as it's reasonable to have snow, assuming you care that much, holiday party, oh yeah, shameless fluff, written for less-than-pure reasons, you gotta love how I mix in the tags with actual information into the ones that are just me rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_nonsense/pseuds/poetic_nonsense
Summary: “Help me put on my stockings,” Charlotte said, brandishing an arched foot at her dear, lovely, unimpressed-looking wife from her position of luxurious repose on the bed.Erika looked at the foot, and then to her, with the unurgent challenge of the righteous.





	And My Heart Beats So That I Can Hardly Speak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darksknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksknight/gifts).



> Now, see, Darks -- _this_ is how you do a holiday gift fic! Read 'em and weep. (Don't actually weep, if you would! I don't know how I'd ever clear my conscience. ;) _Do_ enjoy; you're a fantastic person and an incomparable friend. Love!)
> 
> ...what do you _**mean**_ it's no longer the holiday season?!?!?!
> 
> Ah, well. Happy New Year, everyone!

“Help me put on my stockings,” Charlotte said, brandishing an arched foot at her dear, lovely, unimpressed-looking wife from her position of luxurious repose on the bed.

Erika looked at the foot, and then to her, with the unurgent challenge of the righteous.

Charlotte grinned, because she knew perfectly well that she could put on her own stockings, but then Erika could straighten her cufflinks (because yes, somehow Erika had managed to find a gown with which she could wear cufflinks) without fiddling with them officiously by hand.  She waited to see if she would need to point this out.

Erika sighed and abandoned the cuffs, coming over to sit on the end of the bed before hiking a leg up on it so she could twist around.  Charlotte pursed her lips appreciatively at the view of the plunging back neckline, before it disappeared again.  She vowed to it, before the pale skin twisted out of sight, to give it its full due of attention before the night was done.

Erika was carefully taking the proffered stocking (silk, and a few shades darker than Charlotte’s skin) and feeling the pull of the fabric over her fingers before she readied it to go on Charlotte’s foot.  “I'd rather help you take them off.”

She was cheating, too, sending a wave of dark warmth and suggestion at Charlotte, and not a shred of regret.  “Later, love, after the fundraiser,” said Charlotte, helpfully putting her foot in Erika’s lap.

“I thought you said it was a gala,” Erika grumbled idly as she studiously pulled the stocking up, over Charlotte’s heel, calf, knee, before she ran out of length and nudged the wine-colored fabric of Charlotte’s skirt higher into her lap to get at the garter strap.

Charlotte slipped a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her down for a slow, thorough kiss.  “Any party I’m at is a fundraiser, darling.”

Erika huffed a breath of a laugh and pulled back, impatiently gesturing for the other stocking.  Charlotte graciously complied, and sent a fond ripple of amusement when Erika dragged the other foot into her lap before she could rearrange herself.

The response she received was a teasing image of herself, hogging all Raven’s special chocolate-chip pancakes the last time the three of them had had breakfast together, mingled with a tender sort of condescension and ... _and somehow I love you anyway_.  Charlotte let loose a sort of indignant squawk, mentally, and relished the wide grin Erika turned toward her toes.

When she finished with that one she looked upward, assessing Charlotte, draped over the pillows as she was in a velvet evening gown and an enamored smile.  Charlotte didn’t delve into her thoughts, but she could feel them ticking easily by, one past the other, with a sort of organic mechanicalism that was always comforting and distinctive.

Erika’s hand had been resting on Charlotte’s foot, a thumb rubbing absently along its arch, and it now pulled away to give a brisk pat before Erika said, “Get up and turn around,” and unceremoniously dumped the feet when she stood up herself.

“I know it’s been awhile, love, but usually I expect a little more foreplay than that,” came Charlotte’s facetious reply, and Erika looked at her as though cursing herself for not dropping a chandelier on Charlotte before the house had filled up with dignitaries.

Charlotte grinned.

Charlotte’s wedding ring tugged and sparked none-too-gently against her finger under Erika’s narrow-eyed glare, and she couldn’t help laughing “All right, all right,” as she obligingly abandoned her pillowy lodging and rolled off the bed toward her wife, who was rounding it with the same functional grace and firmness of purpose which carried her through smoking holes in senators’ offices and barricades she had moments ago unbarricaded herself.

Erika wasn’t bothering at all to hide the blare of appreciation as she approached, eyes raking hungrily over the figure Charlotte cut against the low light and the wood paneling -- not even when her gaze flicked between the sensible neckline, long sleeves, and floor-length skirt, and the thoughts turned to, _how can she manage to be so buttoned-up and seductive at the same time?_

 _Not completely buttoned-up_ , sent Charlotte with a cheeky grin and a thrill of excitement.   _Well.  Perhaps not buttons_ _per se_ _…_

Long fingers brushed over Charlotte’s hip when Erika stepped firmly into her space, the scant inch of height she had over Charlotte exaggerated by the shoes she already had on, while Charlotte’s stockinged toes curled against the unavoidable chill of the floor.  Warm as the room was, the cool nipping at her feet was a reminder of the snow laying thick and fluffy in drifts outside, some still pristine despite the determined rampaging of a horde of children bent on destruction.  It was positively romantic.

“That’s why I said ‘turn around,’ you doddering old fool.”

And then the warm tender fingertips were prodding at her hips to turn.

Charlotte did, under duress.  “Hey, I’ll take ‘fool,’ but as I’m only thirty-two --”

“Thirty-five.”

“If I’m thirty-five, you can’t still be thirty-four, you know,” she said pointedly while the offending fingers came up to nimbly fasten the hooks running up the back of her dress, accompanied by an irascible cloud of _worthless fucking alloys..._

“Time works differently in high-speed orbit.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.  For all the grief I _expected_ to get out of that --”

“If you’re not going to kiss me, at least shut up, Charlotte.”

Charlotte did not actually blow a raspberry at her, as she was in fact thirty-five and functionally an adult.  She did it mentally.

Erika managed to suffer this treatment with dignity, replying only with the impression of an eloquently arched brow that she had gotten very good at over the years.

A moment of quiet hook-wrangling later she pointed out, “You know, were we to pursue this line of scientific reasoning --”

“ _Ha._ ”

“-- it would follow that you have a younger lover.”

Charlotte couldn’t help the laughing smile that wanted to twist its way onto her lips.  “Are you saying you’re my midlife-crisis trophy wife, then?”

A warm mouth started pressing kisses to the slope of her shoulderline.  “You _knew_ I only married you for your money, right?”

“And the amazing sex.”

“Well, yes, I suppose.  Emma is surprisingly expensive.”

A bright burst of censure, and Erika was laughing quietly against her shoulder blade, the brush of lips heating the pit of Charlotte’s stomach embarrassingly fast.

“Come on,” Erika crooned quietly ( _irresistibly -- no, wait, bad_ ) into the crook of her neck, “you know I love you, even if you are a little old lady, right?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” said Charlotte acerbically, even though she didn’t, ever, and she devoted time every time they were together to making sure Erika knew it.

“Perhaps I ought to show you, then,” Erika purred, and a hand, finished now with the hooks, slid around, over Charlotte’s waist and heading southward.

Charlotte raised a brow in what she felt was a very good imitation, despite the mirth bubbling up in her chest.  “And what do you think you’re doing, then?”

“Making a pass at my gorgeous wife,” Erika offered hopefully.

“Your incorrigibility does you credit.” Charlotte swatted at the wandering hand.  “Come on, I have to make the rounds at least once before it gets late.”

Lots of grumbling, and Erika detached herself from Charlotte’s back, cooler air rushing in to fill her place like a retaliation.  Charlotte held firm anyway, ducking to grab her shoes from the bedside and slipping them on, thankful for floor-length hems and sturdy heels.  Neither of which Erika was using, of course, because she liked taking the path of most resistance, and then she liked peacocking about it.

She stood up, adjusting the carcanet around her neck, though Erika would be the first to straighten jewelry if any misalignment were taking place, and did a final check-through.  All was as it should be, and she reached mentally for her wife, ready to fend off impatient or disparaging remarks.  When she looked up, though, Erika had surreptitiously ducked, on her way to the door, to pass a hand over her hair at a low-hanging mirror.

Charlotte barely stifled the laughter.  “Your hair looks fabulous, love, I’m sure the Director of Education will love it.”

Perhaps she wasn’t quite so successful after all.

Erika turned from the mirror with a glower.  “Just because I’m attending this party at gunpoint…”

Hardly.

“I know, I know.  You’ve got a reputation to maintain, and threats of annihilation just don’t hold up as well when your victim knows you’ve been out looking anything less than spectacularly dressed,” Charlotte finished mollifyingly, taking Erika’s arm and trying to coax her toward the door.

Erika felt archly amused, but let herself be led out of the darkened refuge of the room and toward the storm of voices superseding the music in the hall.

When they arrived at the site of the festivities, Erika did such a good job of quashing the primal balking that even Charlotte barely perceived it under the steely resolve she heaped over it.  Charlotte was highly acclimatized to these sorts of things, but couldn’t find it in herself to hold it against her; she squeezed Erika’s arm but refrained from sending anything that could be interpreted as patronizing.

For the first few minutes, she tried to keep them together -- there was strength in numbers, after all, and, joking aside, she did want to show Erika off -- but soon enough Erika was murmuring something in her ear between conversations and slipping off, and the Governor and her husband were heading Charlotte’s way.

Charlotte worked her way through the rest of the high-priority receptions, confident in her charm and satisfied with the evening’s results.  She would still need to stop off and greet a few more people before the night was done, but the prospect of a change of pace was appealing.  The prospect of dancing with Erika was even more so.

Empty as the gesture may have been, she craned her neck to scan the crowd as best she could while she sorted through minds -- some tightly shielded, some almost painfully open, most falling somewhere between -- for the familiar methodical press of neatly ordered passion.  

She was having odd trouble finding it, enough that she’d begun wandering through the room in case she was having trouble searching from across the hall -- until she caught a frustrated flash of suspicion:  _She’d better be taking me seriously_.

It was a moment’s work to pinpoint from just beyond a bend in the adjoining corridor, and, sure enough, Erika wandered out seconds later looking worriedly discontented, yet pleased with herself.

She placed herself in Erika’s line of sight and waited until her wife’s gaze fell on her, surprised for a moment but quickly resettled into something approaching suavity as Erika neared with an imperious stride.

“Funny how I didn’t notice a phone pocket when we bought that dress,” Charlotte greeted when she closed in.

Erika grinned with all her teeth and sent Charlotte a fleeting image of the impromptu holster she’d devised involving one of her garter clasps.

Charlotte had to close her eyes, hard-pressed not to roll them.

Erika's mind was bright and cheerful, clearly expecting to get away with it completely, and when Charlotte opened her eyes she was still wearing that look-Charlotte-I’m-irresistible grin.

Charlotte worked very hard not to rise to it, instead taking Erika’s hand and tugging her backward toward the nearby dance floor, with brows raised expectantly and a brief wordless pulse of _dancing, now_.

Several thoughts flashed through Erika’s head then, too fast to see unless Charlotte were _looking_ , but the one that settled to the forefront was a surly trail of _it’s a_ _waltz_ _, nobody’s waltzing_ , as her eyes flicked between the pairs already dancing.   _If we dance, we’re waltzing._

Charlotte didn’t bother checking the quiet laugh spilling from her throat as they made their way onto the floor and arranged themselves into classic position, undistracted though she was from the order at hand.

“For heaven’s sake, Erika, you left the Brotherhood to Raven for a _month_ ,” Charlotte said, starting them off on the first few dance steps.  “She’s been your right hand ever since you clapped eyes on each other, you think she’s going to undo everything in a month?”

“There's a lot to handle,” Erika said staunchly.  “A bill is about to be passed in Missouri, and if Mystique doesn't strike while the iron is hot --”

“You've trusted her with far bigger things than terrorizing the Midwest,” countered Charlotte in exasperated amusement.

“This is different,” Erika maintained. “If you were to leave the school in someone else's hands --”

“-- which I _have_ ,” Charlotte interjected, “twice, _for you_ \--”

“You couldn't spend a day without calling McCoy, in Malta --”

“-- _Scott_ was _missing_ _!_ ”

Erika's mind showed how much she thought of _that_ , but she kept her mouth shut, so Charlotte was forced to count it as good behavior.

“Besides, you know they’re all getting blackout drunk tonight anyway, right?  They didn’t do any different while you were in charge, and somehow we’ve all made it through.”

“You wouldn't believe some of the things I've had to stop Azazel from doing,” Erika muttered.

Charlotte had to suppress a smile.  “Surely they can manage,” she said, determinedly saying _they_ instead of _you_.  “It's only a month.”

Erika frowned.  “Why, then, are we not in bed?”

“Darling, if we’d called everything to a stop every time you were feeling randy…”  Charlotte pointedly trailed off, letting the series of memories flicking past each other like a slideshow do the talking.

“A world summit is one thing,” Erika told her conclusively.  “A gala is _not_.”

“You had a go at changing the world your way; now we’re trying mine,” Charlotte said firmly.  “And in mine we get to dance.”

“Nothing with dancing has _ever_ changed the world,” said Erika, dripping with derision.

“The Congress of Vienna did,” Charlotte remarked blithely.

“ _For the better_ ,” Erika amended.

“Well.  I suppose we’ll just have to make this the first.”

Erika snorted, but pressed the impression of a kiss to her forehead.

Charlotte grinned and hummed, and the sound of satisfaction melted into a melody while the expression slipped into a soft, sentimental smile, widening as Erika cocked her head at the song.

It took her a few moments to place the tune, and Charlotte could feel her flicking it through her mind, prodding it with this memory and that until it all froze and Erika turned a disbelieving look on Charlotte.

“You’re humming Fred Astaire at me?!”

Charlotte waggled her eyebrows and kept humming, watching the memories as they played through Erika’s mind: settling down to watch, at Charlotte’s insistence, good-natured grumbling; the rooms, cool enough to wear a sweater despite spring melting into summer outside; lifting the steel popcorn bowl to make space for slinging her legs over Charlotte’s lap, and the opening music mingling with Charlotte’s laugh; ending up, at Charlotte’s insistence, surely, tucked up against each other by the end of the film; the night that followed, unhurried because she didn’t have to leave until the afternoon.  Charlotte was a spectator to Erika’s spectating, watching the march of distinctly fond memories through a filter of dubiousness.  When Erika turned her focus back to her, she was smiling perhaps a touch indulgently.

“We’re not cheek-to-cheek,” Erika observed with a raised brow.

“Easily fixed,” Charlotte pronounced, and modified the hold so that she and Erika were front-to-front, cheeks brushing lightly together so that if she tilted her head a bit she could nose at Erika’s ear.  She felt a breath of amusement against her own, and Erika grudgingly slowed the dance to accommodate this new arrangement.  Smiling, Charlotte let the humming die and instead picked up the song, this time sung directly from her mind into Erika’s.

_Oh!  I love to climb a mountain_

_And to reach the highest peak_

_But it doesn’t thrill me half as much_

_As dancing cheek to cheek…_

She leaned into the embrace while she crooned the words into the cradle of their entangled minds, savoring the light press of Erika’s cheek against hers and the way the contact allowed the warm weight of Erika’s thoughts to slip from her mind to Charlotte’s almost of their own accord.  They were bright and soft and easy; their different levels flickered to and from precedence: the rhythm of the dance steps; the warm solidity of Charlotte’s ribcage, which had always fascinated her, under her thumb; appreciation, with a residual tinge of surprise, at the decorative scheme, silver and warm purples where she would have expected garish colors; and fond appreciation of the cerebral melody Charlotte was singing directly into her head, her mental voice smooth and perfectly sultry, whereas her actual voice broke at least once on every song.

Charlotte didn’t think she’d sent anything out, but there must have been _some_ thing -- a hiccup in the song, maybe -- because she could feel Erika’s cheek shift against hers into a smile, and Erika thought, clearly and positively wistfully: _Unfortunately, the same can be said for her accents…_

Charlotte made her step on her own toes.

“ _Merde!_ ” she hissed, wrenching away with a rather satisfying jolt.  “Was that --”

 _\-- necessary, yes_ , Charlotte answered decisively, and promptly dipped her.  She made sure to press a kiss to the tip of the mildly-discombobulated ex-terrorist’s nose.

Too soon, the song ended, and Charlotte recognized, with a sigh, that she would have to go attend to her duties as host again.  From the looks of it, Erika had reached the same conclusion, reverting back to looking mildly disgruntled impressively quickly -- but, then, it had always been a gift.

Charlotte leaned back in for a peck.  “It won’t be too much longer, now, love.  A half-hour, at most.”

Erika sent a short-lived wave of affection, and pushed her away, saying, “I’d better see you again before we go; I’m going to bully the band into playing a samba.”

 _You can’t_ _dance_ _a samba_ , Charlotte sent with affectionate exasperation.

 _Doesn’t matter.  The Senator’s wife just heard that_ , Erika replied with a wolfish grin.

For a moment, Charlotte was frozen to the spot, completely enamored; when she regained herself she pressed a hard kiss, also wolfish, to Erika, mind-to-mind, breaking off just a moment before she slipped, physically, away.

She lingered in Erika’s mind just long enough to feel the stunned stillness broken with a pulse of shocked outrage, and grinned.

The next half-hour was a blur of dutiful conversation-making and _is that the last one yet_ , and all right, so maybe it did run a little over, but it was hardly Charlotte’s idea, now, was it?  Her eyes kept wandering without permission, searching for emerald silk and dark-auburn hair and dignified mischief.  She thought she caught a glimpse of Erika once, but that was almost worse; she had to wrench herself back to the conversation, and then dig lightly around in Colonel Buchwald’s head because she'd completely forgotten what he'd just said.

Finally, Charlotte was sure she’d gotten to everybody, and the very first of the guests were beginning to leave -- the early-nighters and those looking forward to a more private party, at home.  She wandered over to shake a few hands as they made for the door, and then excitedly hurried over to the spot where she expected to find Erika: a quiet spot for observation, between the refreshment tables and the corner claimed by the musicians.

Sure enough, there was the distinct sharpness of Erika’s scrutiny, and Charlotte sent a green-grey burst of _here_ in advance; Erika looked around and put down her champagne flute on an end table when she spotted Charlotte, striding to meet her like a general about to accept a surrender.

“This color looks good on you,” Erika said by way of greeting, fingers curling around Charlotte's hips, as they were wont to do.

“It looks good on everybody.  Unlike magenta --”

“Which has only ever looked good on me,” Erika finished smugly, which wasn't quite where Charlotte had been going with that, but she knew that perfectly well already, so Charlotte simply raised a brow at her.

She was deploying that awful grin again, and Charlotte had to look away, for the safety of everyone involved, only to find that Erika was pushing her steadily back into the openness of the room.

She pushed _??_ at her, only to be met with a _shush_ while she was driven back another couple feet.  Apparently satisfied, Erika started arranging her hands and said,“This time I lead.”

Charlotte was delighted, but couldn't help a certain amount of cautious apprehension.  “You didn’t really request the samba.”

“‘Request’ is a very polite word,” Erika noted with a certain element of amusement as she began their carefully-timed entrance mid-song.  “But no.  You picked them well; loyalty like that is valuable.  Actually, I think one of them is a mutant…”

“ _No._ ”

Erika made a sound of noncommittal agreement, but the gears of her mind were still ticking away without so much as a pause, so Charlotte pushed, “ _Erika_.  Just for tonight.”

“ _Fine_ ,” said Erika with a roll of her eyes, and kissed Charlotte before she could comment.

Charlotte certainly wasn't distracted, but she decided to let it slide, for now; after all, Erika was here and warm and solid beneath her fingers, and a bit more affected by the champagne than she thought she was, and her thoughts were loose and untroubled and mostly about being  here, with Charlotte.

They spent the rest of the dance caught in the moment, brushing against each other's mind occasionally just because they could.

“I think we can get away with making our exit now,” Charlotte said when it ended, grinning secretively at Erika and expecting her to jump on the news like a long-suffering canine who felt its reward was long overdue.

Instead she replied, “Let’s stay for just one more.”

“All right,” said Charlotte, surprised, with a burbling mental laugh, laying her head on Erika's shoulder as the band started a slow piece for the rapidly dwindling number of remaining guests.

The dance passed almost trance-like, as though there were a protective bubble around them while they swayed and felt and were, broken only by a very inebriated Kurt on the roof, noting with an overwhelming sense of bereavement that the snow had stopped and _where the hell is Ororo when you need her?_  She smiled but didn't pass it to Erika, enraptured by the atmosphere of almost meditative serenity, of quiet, languorous enjoyment of each other's presence.

When the music began to slow and fade, Erika arrived slowly at a halt, and brought a hand up to cup Charlotte's cheek for the duration of a slow, perfect, dangerously tender kiss.

Charlotte's smile when they parted was approaching reverence, and the sheer weight of Erika's gaze made her half-think that perhaps the world would never move again.

Erika's eyes flitted down to her lips, and her own mouth opened to speak.

“Okay, _now_ bed.”

Charlotte tipped back her head and laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Astaire sticks in your head like a bitch, doesn't he?
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought, and I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season. <3


End file.
